


Did I just say that outloud?

by EloquentSavage



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Internal Monologue, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV Derek, Protective Derek, The Author Regrets Nothing, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentSavage/pseuds/EloquentSavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Stiles, for all his genius, is a weirdo who clings to fucked up notions that no one else would ever find romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Did I just say that outloud?

I don’t know why I agreed to this. 

Because the vet clinic has what we need, and Stiles has the fucking key. 

Stiles has keys to everything. 

Kanima venom is the only thing that will humanely stop the huge, out of control alpha that rolled into town on a whim, got himself poisoned, and lost his shit because Beacon Hills is a beacon now, and this is what I do. I protect, and Stiles has keys, and a plan, so we go. 

We go. 

Of course it’s WE, because Scott is with Isaac, tracking it down after it almost killed them. Lydia is in LA tonight, Deaton isn't answering his phone, and Peter has conveniently disappeared. That asshole always does this. Lately he’s come through, but nothing erases Laura. Never. 

'WE' is Stiles building a plan where he and I are a team. Every time. Every. Fucking. Time. 'WE' is Stiles, interjecting and volunteering the both of us for missions, talking and acting like I will say yes without asking me first. 'WE' is not being able to argue with it, or even complain, because most of the time the plans are good. 

I avoided 'WE' for a while, and ended up with another psychotic ex girlfriend... God dammit. Why did I think of it... Her... **again**? Now I'm fucking pissed, again. 

I want to forget he said it, I don't know why I can't. I'm more angry about that than the fact he said it to begin with. Stiles says shit all the time. His mouth is like an unchecked river of sarcasm and razor blades. Stiles doesn't worry about what he says to me because he thinks he can't hurt me. 

Like that time I let him punch me, but it didn't help. Stiles didn't really want to and it didn't make him feel better like I thought it would. He yelled at me for my eyes being too far apart, my face being 'weird', and how he felt bad my family was dead. Then he said couldn't punch me, not for real. 

But he could say all that terrible shit. I would have healed, but forgetting what he said hasn't happened yet. 

“If you drop me off at the station, my dad will take me, and you can meet up with Scott and Isaac.” Stiles suggests the police station like it’s a better plan. 

The sheriff knows about us now. He has a gun, and a gaggle of deeply stupid deputies. Like red shirts running into the scene behind Kirk and Spock. I don't want to think it, but I do every time I see them; their lives are already forfeit. They serve and protect, but they don't have teeth, or claws, or Stiles. 

It is not a better plan, it’s a plan that doesn’t involve the two of us being together. Now he suggests it. Now that he can't get me to talk to him, even though we're trapped in the car together. 

I’m not responding. I don’t care. If I cared, I would have taken the keys from Stiles and gotten it on my own, but he’s safer with me than with bullets. Bullets don’t stop an alpha, not like this one. Bullets just piss them off. 

“I’m sorry, if I would have known how much it was going to upset you--” 

Motherfuckingasshole sonofa bitch why does he talk. Why does he even open his stupid fucking mouth. 

“Stiles, shut up,” I interrupt him quickly and say with no emotion because it’s the decent thing to do. 

I’m big on decency nowadays. Decency is my thing, it’s my tune, my jive. 

Is that a thing? Jive? 

It's his own fault, he could have just left it alone till I got over it, like everything else, but no. He had to ask why I was 'weird' around him now. He said something absurd about Cora almost dying--which he fixed at least once--I was grateful for what he did, so I set him straight. I told him what was really bothering me, because he likes it when I do that, and he really came through for Cora. I felt like I owed him the truth. 

He told me to go fuck myself. 

He can go fuck himself. 

That was a couple days ago, I haven't talked to him since, and suddenly we're a team. 

We. WE... We, again.

He’s talking again, but I’m not going to listen because it’s only going to piss me off. We are pulling into the clinic, and he’s such a fucking spaz, he’ll forget about whatever he's saying the second we get out of the car. Which is right fucking now. 

“Stiles, we don't have time for any of this shit, just shut the fuck up and open the front door, okay?” I say this because I like the way he flinches when I curse. 

I don’t curse often, but when I do it’s usually because this asshole--Stiles, to be clear, the asshole is Stiles--has pissed me off, yet again. I swear at Peter a lot too, but he doesn’t count. 

I look around, listen close for danger. No werewolves, no creepy shit, everything is quiet. 

Now, get out of the car Stiles. I motion toward him, but I'm not looking at him if I don't have to. 

If I wasn't pissed at him, I'd thank him for waiting, then for the hustle. He’s getting better at the get up and go. Letting us take care of shit he can't handle without the tiresome inferiority bullshit. Compartmentalization, coping, marginalizing his fear. He's practically a motherfucking expert now. 

It’s unfortunate, but he’s the one who chooses to get himself balls deep in this shit every time, no matter how much I yell at him and tell him to go home. 

Everything inside the clinic is the same, same scents, same weird rowan wood vibe. God I fucking hate that skin crawling, mountain ash bullshit. Being in here sometimes makes me feel like a criminal. Excessive, how much Deaton beefed up the druid crap... after I beat the shit out of him, but still.

Of course I thought he was the alpha, who wouldn’t? He’s a good guy, but he’s creepy as fuck. People say I’m creepy, but Deaton... Deaton is actually a really good guy. He’s nice to me. 

I’m just pissed because of the shit Stiles said. I need to drop this and pay attention to what I’m supposed to be doing. 

“It’s not here, call him again,” the panic in Stiles voice is really unnecessary. Distracting.

“It’s probably in his office,” I say this calmly because I’m helpful, even when I don’t want to be.

Helpful feels like a new thing too, but good, better, like decency. Trying to be helpful for a good reason is at least. It’s easier when people aren’t assholes. 

Following Stiles is like chasing a cat. He veers off like he sees something shiny and I have to grab him, point him in the right direction. He’s not dumb. He just forgets which way is right, and which is left, and sometimes where doors are, and how they work.

Who the fuck does that? Forgetting right and left. Getting directions from him while driving is fucking impossible. Well... not so much now that I make him tap on the window or the dash when he says right or left, so if it doesn’t match--why am I thinking about this? 

“Stiles, check the bottom drawer. I can’t open it, so it’s probably in there.” Helpful. I'm helpful.

I do helpful well. Really well, because Stiles has the rowan box with the dozens of vials of kanima venom, and we only need one. 

“Put it back Stiles,” I say this because I am a moral compass now. 

I don't actually care if he pockets one, except I can see this asshole using it for pranks, like ‘happy birthday Derek, here’s a traumatic paralyzation, I think I’m so funny’. God, I will kill him if he does that. 

Must remember to text Deaton later and tell him to find a better hiding place. 

Sometimes I wonder if people understand just how impulsive Stiles is, like by now Deaton should know better. He has to know Stiles has a key, but he hasn’t changed the locks, because he doesn’t mind Stiles having a key. 

It’s like handing a pyromaniac a box of lighters and telling them don’t touch. Stiles isn’t a thief, but he is opportunistic. He is a thief sometimes, but he’s so good at it he doesn’t get caught. That's almost the same as not being one. 

That was a noise. 

That was a bad noise. 

“Stiles, stop,” I say this because he is about to walk out of the swinging door, toward the parking lot, where there is definitely, most certainly a giant, raging alpha werewolf headed toward us. 

“Shit, It’s here. Deaton’s office.” I grab Stiles’ shoulder and pull, but he is pushing me off. 

Why, and how is it even here?

“Stiles!” I yell this at him because he isn't moving fast enough. 

He needs both hands sometimes, like now, because he doesn't take his own safety seriously enough. Both hands, shoulder, arm. Stiles, is going into Deaton’s office if he likes it or not. He made a noise like I hurt something. What the fuck is wrong with me? Be careful, he's fragile. 

The metallic wrenching, crashing noise is probably my car--fuck, that was my car door. God damn it. No alarm. We didn't lock the front door. Stiles thinks fast. He locks Deaton's office door.

Why are his hands on my chest? Why is he pushing me toward a wall? 

"Derek, the closet is protected like a fucking bunker, just get in,” Stiles is annoyed with me, but I didn't notice the closet.

If I had noticed the closet I would have suggested it, obviously. 

I will never admit how much the strange, tiny door handle slides in my hand because my hand is sweaty and gross. Stiles doesn't notice, or he doesn't care. I can hear that alpha, monster thing searching for us outside the building. Inside is a concept it doesn’t like right now, so it avoids inside. That gives us a few minutes, maybe. 

I’m terrified, but the door finally opens and I drag Stiles inside as he is texting Scott. 

I shut the door and lock it. The lock is on the inside. This is a bunker, a panic room, a safe hiding place. Tight, claustrophobic. It’s sort of like the sensation of being in a coffin because the whole thing is lined with rowan. It closes in on me, tries to push me out with discomfort and powerlessness. It’s painted, like the swinging door, and the counter. It won’t shock me like the drawer, but it feels awful, and I don’t want to touch it with my hands, because it makes my skin crawl. 

“Derek, calm down,” Stiles voice isn’t panicked because he’s worried about me. “Trade me places so you aren’t right up against the paneling.” 

Stiles knows, of course he knows. 

“I’m fine,” I say this because I have to. Stiles does it too. 

“You know, I thought we moved past this whole, ‘Spartan Warrior’ thing? You aren’t stronger than me in here, and you can’t wolf out; so, trade me places, or I’ll kick your ass.” 

Stiles means it. 

His hands on my hips is not something I ever wanted to feel, especially not in this context. Stiles Stilinski is feeling me up in a closet while my car is being ripped to shreds by a psychotic alpha. Or maybe he’s stealing my wallet. 

This side of the closet has things hanging from hangers, and drawers in front of the rowan paneling. Regular old laminated, particle board drawers. They stink like chemicals and plastic, but everything does. My skin doesn't crawl quite so much. I'm still powerless. It’s not better, but it’s not as bad either. 

“Will you get your hands off me?” I say this because I don't want Stiles getting ideas. 

Its bad enough he has ‘issues’ with situations like this. He calls it getting a fear boner. I would never say that outloud, even though it is kinda funny. Stiles is the funniest person I know. The shit he says when he drunk dials me would be even more funny, if he remembered any if it. 

“Are you smiling?” Stiles asks me. 

I can't see anything, why can Stiles see and I can't? 

I’m fucking useless without my wolf. 

“You were smiling, why were you smiling?” 

“Shut up!” I whisper in my really angry voice, because I'm afraid, and Stiles is too loud. 

Oh shit. The alpha heard us.

“Oh shit,” Stiles says because he hears the same thing I do, the fucking thing is that loud as it paws at the front door. 

Stiles clings to me, his hands grab my shirt. He makes a little noise in his throat when the glass on the front door breaks. I don’t mean to, but I grab him back. My hands wrap around the backs of his arms instinctively, holding him still and close. I’m facing the door, listening silently, carefully, for a wolf that probably won’t be picking a lock anytime soon. He’ll just come crashing in, breaking the door to pieces. 

I don't need to listen carefully. I’ll hear him coming long before he tears me to shreds, if he gets past the rowan wood around the gate. 

Stiles is facing me, his lips are close to my cheek, his breath is hot on my skin. If he could crawl up me like a cat, he would. His heart is racing. He is terrified. 

I can't be angry with him when he’s so human. All I want to do is protect him, so I wrap my arms around his chest. I hold him tight. I let him be afraid. I’m not that strong anymore, not like I used to be when I was alpha. If it comes for us before Scott and Isaac get here, I might not make it, but I’ll die protecting Stiles. 

I can’t say this outloud because it won’t make him feel better the way it makes me feel better. 

He’s shaking. I don't know what to do when he gets like this. I understand it. Hiding in a closet isn’t go time, it’s huddle and be afraid time. It’s ‘we’re trapped in a corner like little mice’ time, but this is the kid that brings a baseball bat to an alpha showdown, except right now his fists are balled up in my shirt like I’m a wooby blanket, and the alpha about to eat us is the monster under the bed. 

I don't understand him. 

He drags in a long, ragged breath and I can smell the stench of fear and pain as he exhales slowly.

“Are you hurt?” I whisper in his ear as quietly as I can. 

“Just my ankle,” Stiles says this, but it means shit. 

Stiles would walk through glass and say he was fine, it was just a little bleeding to death. Sometimes he’s sarcastic and complainy, but mostly he’s a fucking liar. 

A loud crash makes us both tense. I hold my breath, listening, but Stiles, he lets out a long breath through his clenched teeth. His head drops to my chest, stifling the hissing noise, trying to be more quiet. He is breathing deep, trying to control himself. 

Stiles is panicking. This is how he gets. If he’s separated enough from the action, he thinks too hard and talks too much, but he’s okay. If he’s balls deep in the game, he’s hitting Kanimas with his jeep and bringing sisters back to life. A step to the left of almost dead, that’s when he flips the fuck out for real, and gives his anxiety free reign. He's too close, or just close enough to see how fucked he is. 

“Stiles,” I whisper because I'm trying to figure out something to help, anything other than letting him think about how awful our death might be. 

“I’m sorry for what I said about Jennifer and Kate, and telling you to go fuck yourself, don’t be mad anymore,” Stiles asks this too loudly, but the pain and regret in his voice is more important than the monster stalking us outside. 

“I forgive you, just calm down,” I whisper this because I mean it, and I hope it will help. 

It's quiet outside, it could be listening for us. 

It bothers me that he knows about Kate, not that he said what he did to a room full of people, or even to my face. I don't know how long he knew about Kate, or who told him. It was probably Peter. 

Peter loves attention from Stiles. 

It bothers me because I don’t want Stiles to know things like that about me. I don't want him to know the bad things I’ve done, or forgive me for them. It’s easier if Stiles thinks I’m old, and mean, and unattainable. 

I am unattainable. 

That’s the only reason he likes me the way he does. Stiles likes things he can't have. 

Stiles still likes Lydia Martin the same way, but Lydia doesn’t like Stiles, not like that. Not like I do. 

It's still quiet outside...

My eyes have adjusted to the dark. His head is still down, it’s moving along with my slow, even breaths. I can calm him down, just by being calm, because he mimics everything I do subconsciously. 

He lifts his head, and he is uncomfortably close to my face. His giant eyes are sad, longing, still a little scared. He is confused again, because he is a giant raw nerve, and a ball of relentless hormones. He doesn't understand that right now is the wrong time to feel the way he does. 

Mostly because this is his whole life now. He is being conditioned to associate the threat of violence with being cared for, loved, touched, held. Being needed and valued only when his life is in danger, because it’s the only time I do this, and it’s the only time Lydia gives him the same kind of attention. The rest of the time we won't even hug Stiles. 

I know this because Stiles yelled it at me once, but he thinks I don't remember. 

Lydia Martin and I are both assholes. 

I’m not sure why, or how it became a cycle of panic and intimacy, but this is what Stiles knows. It's what he associates with getting the attention he craves. He doesn’t crave much attention, but what he does want is more than I should be giving him. 

I know he isn’t scared because he hopes I’ll give him attention, he’s getting attention because he’s terrified, it’s two sides of the same shit coin. 

I'm sure I'm right about all of this, because I am exactly the same way. That's why I shouldn't touch him, that's why I shouldn't let him get this fucking close to my face. 

I am a terrible person. 

“You aren't a terrible person,” Stiles whispers. 

Fuck... how much of that did I say out loud? 

Fuck. 

How many curse words would it take to erase that?

“Derek, why did you say that?” Stiles asks me this question because he wants me to know he doesn’t think I’m a terrible person. 

He knows I won't answer him. He doesn't expect an answer, and he knows most days I don’t like myself very much. He knows these things because he asked one time, and I gave him an honest answer. Mostly because he cared enough to ask in the first place. That was before, when I thought we were just friends. 

I never thought we were just friends. I hoped he thought we were just friends...

“You used to answer me. I wish you would answer me.” Stiles says because he thinks I don't like him anymore. 

He thinks I genuinely don't like him anymore because he finally went too far. 

He never thought I would actually answer that question. 

He said one time, when I ignored him, he felt like a ‘non-person’. I told him to not let anyone make him feel like less of a person, and he took that as permission to try and change my behavior. 

He grinds me down with sarcastic observations, trying to convince me of my unacceptable way of communicating. He tells me what I should say instead, sometimes sending me text messages when we’re in the same room, so no one else will know he does this. All that, instead of accepting the silence at face value, as simply not wanting to talk. 

Sometimes people just don't want to talk. 

It’s still quiet in the clinic, but I don’t care about that as much as I should. 

I always want to talk, I just don’t. 

I think Stiles knows that too. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I am. 

Stiles deserves better than me. He deserves a life free of this shit, free of violence, and fear. He deserves college, and parties, and fucking off. He deserves a cute girl who will kiss him and tell him he smells good, or a nice boy who will take all of his sarcasm in stride, then shove it right back in his face, because that turns Stiles on. 

“Stop being sorry and be my friend.” 

“I don't want to be your friend,” I say this before I think. 

I’m thinking now, and I don't know why I just said that. Stiles is going to misunderstand, and think I meant I don't want to be his friend at all, but the look on his face says Stiles does not misunderstand, because Stiles was paying more attention to how I said it, than what I said. 

The way he's looking at me--

I had sexy voice. 

I'm cringing because I'm stupid. My eyes are closed, but Stiles is uncomfortably close to my face. There's no way he's not seeing this, and there's no way he's letting this go. 

Jesus fucking christ I’m going to die. The Sheriff is going to kill me. I’m going to die. Stiles shifted, or maybe I did, or maybe we both did, just enough it’s painfully clear how both of us feel about being this close to each other. 

I can’t hide my dick pressed against his hip, or ignore his. Jesus Christ, no one could ignore his. How did I not know all that was in those stupid khaki pants, and--I can't take any of this impending shit storm back, so fuck it. There is no use in keeping my eyes shut. 

I didn't open this proverbial door, I fell out of it, like Stiles falls out of his jeep because he's too leggy, uncoordinated, and weird to figure out how to open a door and step out like a normal human being.

This is the least right thing I could possibly do right now. Because, so many reasons. If I list them off I'll get pissed and say some stupid, asshole, Mr. Darcy bullshit, and I am not that guy anymore. 

I'm helpful now, and decent.

I hate myself, and I want to fuck him so bad I can taste it. Dry, sticky, sweet lips. Pressing his face into the mattress, making him moan my name, doing whatever it takes to break the connection between his mouth and his brain until he’s nothing but unintelligible noise, sweat, and bliss. 

I want to fuck him so hard he forgets who he is. 

I’m going to hell. 

He’s unballing his fists and flexing his fingers against my chest. I’m terrified he’s going to kiss me, and I’m terrified he won't. Stiles wouldn’t do anything before he kissed me. Kissing comes first. It always comes first. But his hands are sliding under the edge of my shirt, around my back, and into my pants. His hands are cupping my ass and I don't know why. Maybe this is a new thing, or maybe Stiles just really likes my ass. Either way, I don't get it. 

I'm not surprised, being turned on and confused by Stiles is how I learned to like him. 

Maybe this is just Stiles being weird and awkward, but--oh fuckingfuckinghell, what the fuck is he doing? He hasn’t kissed me. He isn’t allowed to grind against me like that! That comes way after kissing and groping and--

I can't breathe. 

This is perfect. 

This is all I want. 

Stiles Stilinski grinding against me, staring into my eyes like the fearless asshole he is. Challenging me to stop him, or kiss him, and make this a remotely decent thing to do. 

I fucking hate him--oh god--except when he does that. 

“You like this,” Stiles says this because he is an asshole that says really obvious shit, really often. 

He likes everyone to know he’s right. 

“Say something,” he says this as he grinds against me again. Because that's obviously the best way to get a guy to think. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck your beautiful eyes, and your weird nose, and all those fucking moles. I fucking hate you. You’re literally the biggest asshole I’ve ever met in my life. 

He stopped, he's waiting... 

“Don’t stop,” I say this because I’m stupid. 

Stiles' lips taste like copper, mint and adderall. His tongue is soft and slick, mostly its needful and aggressive though. Stiles kisses me like he owns me. Like he doesn't have to care how I kiss him back, or if I like it. Sloppy, wet and urgent. 

There is no way he only has two hands, there are too many hands in this scenario. 

His hands are rough against my neck and throat. My hands grip his ass tight because I’m the one grinding on him like a stupid kid making out in a closet. 

I never made out in a closet like this when I was a stupid kid. 

I’m still a fucking stupid kid. 

“Stop being an asshole to me,” Stiles says because he thinks he can negotiate when our dicks are hard. 

“You stop saying asshole shit to me when you get mad,” I say, because it doesn’t matter how hard my dick is, I won’t negotiate with terrorists. 

“Okay, if you promise to fuck me,” Stiles says because he wants me to fuck him, obviously. I want him to say it again so I can be sure I wasn't hallucinating.

“Okay,” I say because I’m stupid, but I already covered that. 

“Promise.” Stiles grips my face tight and presses his lips to mine roughly. 

He's already angry about shit I haven't said or done because he thinks the promise will be empty. He doesn't trust me, not about this. 

I need Stiles to trust me like I need air. When he doesn't trust me I fixate. It's not something I'm good at living with.

I have to do this. 

I don’t have a choice, Stiles understands. 

When I push him away and turn him around, smashing his face against the wall, I’m holding his neck firmly. He knows this isn't meant to hurt him. I'm giving him exactly what he wants, before he asks for it, because that's how you get Stiles to trust you. 

You prove you know what you're doing. 

You mean it. 

My other hand slides down his stomach, promising things words can’t. 

That noise.

That half whimper, half moan, rumbling deep in his chest. 

That noise was for me. I made that. My hand slides over his dick and his legs shake. I can hear his fingernails against the wall, but I can't see them. This is all me, all my bad decisions, not the wolf and it's pressing, impulsive needs that are so difficult to ignore.

“I promise,” I say because Stiles likes words and I'm giving him what he wants.

I have so many words. So many promises. 

“I’m going to--Derek-- “ Stiles thinks I need a warning. 

He thinks I don’t know he’s about to come. When he does it’s hard and messy against the inside of his pants. He moans, too loud. 

Just loud enough. 

His ass pressed against my dick--even through jeans--is something I’ll think about later. Right along with those stifled moans and the soft noises he makes when he comes. 

I leave most of his come behind in his pants, but some of it makes my thumb slick. He turns around and watches me suck it off the back of my hand carefully. 

It smells like his room. Like too much porn, and caffeine. 

His eyes are wide as he watches my mouth. He doesn’t think I do things like this. He thought he was going to be the aggressive one. 

Sometimes he will be, mostly on the new moon. I get weird on the new moon, but Stiles will probably like it. He’ll probably look forward to it, watch the calendar and ask Scott inappropriate questions until Scott figures out why. 

He’s always asking stupid questions. 

“Can we go back to your place?” Like that, that is a stupid question. 

Where are we going to go? The police station? 

“Yes, once Scott gets here. I want to look at your ankle," I remind him. I don't want to put Stiles in danger, even though I haven't heard anything outside for a long time.

“Scott isn’t coming, not yet. He could be on his way, but I'm not sure," Stiles says too casually. 

“Didn’t you text him?” 

“Yeah, but I told him we were fine, we had it under control. I didn't get a chance to tell him we were still here, my phone is on the floor outside.” Stiles says because he is fucking stupid as shit sometimes. 

“How is this under control?” I ask because I’m annoyed as fuck, and we literally have nothing under control.

“I put kanima venom on the swinging door.” Stiles says because he is a genius. 

“That crash we heard...” I say, because I’m not. 

“He’ll be paralyzed for at least another hour right? So, we could do it in here. I have a condom in my wallet.” Stiles says because he's ballsy as fuck. I love that about him. 

“Do you want me to fuck you in a closet, with a jacked out alpha listening outside the door, or do you want to do it in the bed, and the shower, and maybe the kitchen?” I ask because I know how to make promises. 

Stiles doesn't answer because he actually doesn’t know which one he wants more. 

Stiles is an asshole. 

“The bed Stiles, the answer is the bed," I tell him. "C’mon, lets go see if my car is okay, and call Deaton.” I say because I am an adult. 

I adult well occasionally. 

Stiles traps me against the door and kisses me, licking my lips, and tongue, and maybe my tonsils, because he’s afraid he might not get to do this again. 

It feels fucking awful that he doesn't trust me, but everything else feels so fucking good. 

It's never felt this good. 

“I promise,” I say again. I know Fight Club is one of his favorite movies. 

And Stiles, for all his genius, is a weirdo who clings to fucked up notions that no one else would ever find romantic. 

Maybe he does romance weird so he can get away with it, even if the other person won't like him back. 

“That’s three times you promised,” Stiles says. 

“Stiles, we need to go,” I say this because even though I am an adult, I can't make him stop. 

Only Stiles can make himself stop. If he keeps going, I’ll let him. 

He stops and I don't move to leave, I don't act like an adult, because I'm not. Instead, I kiss him, sweetly, then with my tongue, lazily exploring the softness of his mouth. 

This is the promise Stiles wanted. He relaxes, leaning heavily against me until I give us barely enough space to see each other. I wait, and he nods in agreement. 

We promise each other silently. 

Just the two of us, no one else.

**Author's Note:**

> Who hasn't read Pride and Prejudice? We all know Derek Hale has.
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> [Just in case you haven't, click here to watch some asshole, Mr.Darcy, bullshit.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1Uq5ZAscVg)
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> [AO3 tumblr post if you care to rec](http://ao3feed-sterek.tumblr.com/post/92142537856)


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